


A Dream Is a Wish You Make With Your Heart. (Or, Possibly, With Your Mustache.)

by Kansas42



Category: The Unusuals
Genre: Case Fic, Concussions, Crack, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Funerals, Gen, Mustaches, POV Multiple, Psychic Abilities, Quasi Kid FIc, Team Dynamics, Wedding Planning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-17
Updated: 2014-12-17
Packaged: 2018-03-01 21:46:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2788880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kansas42/pseuds/Kansas42
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Casey and Walsh may be doomed to have a fairy tale wedding, whether they like it or not. Meanwhile, Banks has gone missing, and Alvarez’s mustache may or may not have psychic powers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Dream Is a Wish You Make With Your Heart. (Or, Possibly, With Your Mustache.)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [etben](https://archiveofourown.org/users/etben/gifts).



> With everything that’s going on in NYC right now, it feels strange to be writing a story about good cops who regularly don’t follow protocol. It was, however, a little too late to switch fandoms, so I’ve tried my best to keep to the quirky/goofy tone of the show, and hopefully not include any scenes that suggest that police brutality is acceptable. I truly hope no one finds anything in this story offensive or triggering.
> 
> Also, to my Yuletide recipient: I’m sorry I couldn’t write you an Unusuals/Brooklyn Nine-Nine crossover, but I’ve unfortunately never watched the latter. Hopefully, you’ll enjoy this anyway. :)

_Attention, Second Squad: be on the lookout for a large cowboy on a tiny horse. Cowboy has been chucking cans of salsa at passing pedestrians while screaming, ‘New York City!’ and laughing in a fiendish manner_.

*

The dress was not a dress. It was a giant white parachute made up entirely of ruffles. It was a smuggling device covered in rhinestones. It was a monstrosity that three “dream attendants” had forced her into while gushing nonstop. “How pretty you are! You look just like a princess! How would you feel about a tiara?”

Casey wanted to shoot someone. That’s how she felt about a tiara.

“Oh, you’ll see. Once you put it on, you’ll never want to take it off again!”

Casey very sincerely doubted that.

*

Police work was sometimes like tag team wrestling. This robbery case, for instance: people came back from their honeymoons, only to discover their homes had been stripped of all their most valuable possessions. (And in a few cases, their most random possessions: one couple had complained more about their stolen octopus plushies than they had about their jewelry or 3D television.) It had been Allison’s case, initially. She and Cole had uncovered the common thread linking the victims: each happy couple had used the same company, Dreams (Do Come True), to plan their wedding.

Christine Kim, the lead planner -- no, Walsh reminded himself, the _dream director_ \-- was the main suspect. She had the most access to the victims’ personal information and no alibi for any of the robberies. She had also been acting suspiciously in her interview, according to Allison, jittery and often unable to meet anyone’s eyes for longer than a few seconds.

But with no actual evidence to go on, the investigation stalled out, leading Sergeant Brown to come up with a new plan: an undercover approach. As the employees were already familiar with Allison and Cole, the detectives were tagged out and Walsh and Casey were tagged in.

That was how Walsh came to be sitting on a couch that probably cost more than his car, surrounded by salesmen who kept pestering him about his preferred color of cravat. Until yesterday, Walsh had thought a cravat was some kind of seafood. Some days, he really hated undercover work.

Then again . . .

“Here she is!” Christine Kim announced.

Casey followed one of the dream attendants out of the changing room, wearing a murderous expression and the poofiest damn dress Walsh had ever seen. He would’ve figured she’d look more natural in it, growing up in a world where silly dresses like that were probably commonplace, but instead she looked more like a cranky three year old in her mother’s clothing, stomping over to the mirror and trying to set the shop on fire with her eyes. It was probably for the best that she didn’t have her gun.

She pointed at him. “You,” she said. “Shut up.”

“Oh, honey, he’s not laughing at you,” Kim immediately said, whooshing over to take Casey by the shoulders. “You look beautiful. He’s just happy to see you getting ready for the big day.” 

Walsh, who had definitely been laughing at her, coughed a few times and badly attempted to smother his smile. He could feel his lips twitching.

Kim left Casey’s side and walked over to Walsh. “Don’t worry,” she said quietly. “It’s very common for brides to be a little moody while they’re looking for the right dress. She just needs reassurance.”

Walsh nodded and stood there until she pushed him forward; then he realized _he_ was supposed to give the reassurance. He walked to Casey and awkwardly wrapped his arms around her waist from behind. They stared at each other’s reflections. Walsh’s lips went right on twitching.

“You look . . . really pretty, honey,” Walsh said. “Just, uh. Like a princess.”

“This princess is gonna kick your ass if you don’t stop smirking,” Casey whispered. Louder, she said, “I just don’t think this one is for me. Uh. Baby.”

“Well, we do have another dress that you might like,” Kim said quickly. “It just came in this morning, as a matter of fact, and perfect for the fairy tale wedding you two talked about. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before. Picture this: an actual replica of Cinderella’s gown.”

Casey’s smile looked a little sick. “The big blue one?”

“That’s the one! Of course, Cinderella also had a white wedding dress, but no one ever remembers that. Lovely gown, but it’s not truly special. You want something that will stand the test of time, and this, oh this. This is something truly remarkable.”

“Great,” Casey said. “Yay.”

“And of course we have the complete dress uniform for Jason!”

“What,” Walsh said.

“Well, you’ll want to match, won’t you? Of course you will. And you’ll look so dashing in it.”

“Wait,” Walsh said. 

Casey’s smile was nothing short of malicious. “Dashing,” she agreed. “That sounds _great_.”

“But,” Walsh said. “That’s . . .” 

_Your job_ , he reminded himself. _That’s the job_. 

“Super,” Walsh said flatly.

Christine Kim beamed. Casey laughed at him.

As two dream attendants came to drag him away, Walsh prayed that nobody was actually watching the feed from the secret camera he’d hidden in the viewing room.

*

Beaumont was laughing so hard she was crying. “Guys, guys. You’ve _got_ to see this.”

The decision to install a hidden camera was not a tactical one. No one seriously believed that Christine Kim, or anyone else for that matter, was going to do anything illegal in a room with so many potential witnesses, nor did they believe that Walsh or Shraeger were in any serious danger from sinister octopus plushie thieves. But everyone pretended that they believed it so they could keep watching the most unconvincing and awkward love affair of all time.

It . . . it was ugly. Beaumont had known it was a bad idea going in, but even she didn’t expect it to be _this_ bad. Walsh, after all, was well known to be an excellent liar -- not a quality most women looked for in their boyfriends, maybe, but it did make him a great cop, and anyway, he had . . . other qualities that more than made up for that. And Shraeger had worked undercover for years, right? They were both fairly attractive people, familiar with one another. This shouldn’t have been that hard.

But Walsh kept scrunching up his face like he was trying to kiss his sister. And Shraeger had a tendency to panic at the first sign of anyone doubting their pre-nuptial bliss, which led to abrupt confessions about their sex life. All of these confessions were spur-of-the-moment lies that were hilariously TMI and completely failed to convince anybody of their happiness as a couple. Walsh and Shraeger were both very, very bad at pet names.

“If Walsh ever calls me ‘lovemuffin,’ or ‘kissy cakes’, we are _done_ ,” Beaumont decided.

It had taken approximately one minute and forty-seven seconds of watching this train wreck before the Second sprung into action. Charts were made. Debates were argued. Bets were placed. 88% of the squad had money down on Shraeger being the one to finally blow it, either by having a nervous breakdown and setting something on fire, or else by climbing on a piece of furniture and awkwardly confessing the truth as she had done at Apolo’s.

Beaumont didn’t buy it. Shraeger was a rookie, but she was tough. Walsh just thought he was tough. And now he was wearing tassels.

_Tassels_. 

“I’ve never been more sure that God exists than right now.”

“That’s blasphemy,” Cole said, gently chiding. He took a sip of tea and watched Walsh tug at the gold fringe coming from his shoulders. “It’s very . . . distinguished.”

Beaumont stared at him. “You’re kidding, right?”

Cole hid his mouth behind his mug and carefully said nothing. She grinned. People thought Cole didn’t have a sense of humor, but she was on to him. He was funnier and a lot brighter than people gave him credit for.

A phone slammed down. Beaumont looked up to see Delahoy sitting at Banks’s desk, looking even more agitated than normal, which was saying something. Papers fell to the floor as he shoved things around, opened up drawers, searched through the trash bin. “What happened?” Beaumont asked. “Banks steal your lunch money or something?”

“I can’t find him,” Delahoy said. “He didn’t come in today, isn’t picking up his phone.”

“So, you’re looking for him in the desk drawer?”

Delahoy scowled at her. “Very funny,” he said.

“It was, huh?”

If possible, Delahoy scowled even harder. “It’s two weeks till his birthday, all right? Two weeks until he stops sleeping in his vest, till he doesn’t have to talk himself into leaving his apartment and actually uses furniture that can’t be popped with a needle. All I’m trying to do here is get him through the next two weeks so I can go back to my own regularly scheduled insanity, okay? But I can’t do that until I find him, so unless one of you actually has something useful to contribute . . .”

“You’re a good friend, Eric,” Cole said solemnly.

“Thanks,” Delahoy said. “That’s exactly the opposite of what I meant.”

There was a crash to Beaumont’s left. She turned and saw Alvarez steadying himself on his desk, where he’d apparently managed to knock several folders, a pair of handcuffs, and a banana to the floor. The side of his head was covered in white gauze. “The hell happened to you?” she asked.

“Some lunatic threw a can of salsa at his head,” Sergeant Brown said, before Alvarez could respond. “Eddie, go home.”

“Eddie Alvarez does not stop for concussions,” Alvarez said. It was almost impressive, how pompous he still managed to sound while wobbling on his feet. He frowned and itched briefly at his mustache before looking at Delahoy. “Something’s wrong with Banks.”

Delahoy pulled twelve mini bottles of hand sanitzer out of Banks’s desk drawer. “Really? I had no idea.”

“No, more than that. He’s in trouble.” Alvarez itched his mustache again. “Serious trouble. He’s hurt.”

“Alvarez -- “ Sarge said.

“Eddie Alvarez didn’t ask for these abilities, Sergeant. But now that he has them, he has a responsibility to use them for good.”

Beaumont raised her eyebrows. “Uh, Sarge, what’s he -- ”

“Alvarez has decided that the head trauma he suffered isn’t actually trauma,” Sergeant Brown said. “Instead of a concussion, that jar of salsa to the skull apparently gave him psychic powers. They’re manifesting in his mustache.”

“It keeps twitching,” Alvarez explained. “Anytime I get a premonition. That’s how I know.”

Beaumont stared at him. Then she looked back at the screen, where her boyfriend, dressed up as Cinderella’s prince, was grimacing as he barely-kissed an equally grim Cinderella. Then she looked at Cole.

“Today seem even weirder than normal?”

Cole wordlessly nodded.

“Hey,” Delahoy said, now juggling the bottles of hand sanitizer. “How do I requisition a battering ram again?”

*

It turned out, getting a battering ram was harder than it sounded. But when no one could get ahold of Leo, and no one could get ahold of his notoriously unreliable landlord, and two different locksmiths looked at Leo’s door, laughed uproariously, and walked straight back out . . . Delahoy (along with three other officers) got to break down the door.

Leo was gonna be pissed about that, assuming he was still alive. Which he was. Obviously. Delahoy wasn’t actually worried; he wasn’t. This was just . . . it was funny. Leo was gonna freak out about the door, and Delahoy was gonna laugh at him, and after he paid for a new one and Leo started talking to him again, it would all just be one of those funny stories you tell people. Especially when you added in the part about Alvarez’s supposedly psychic mustache.

So he wasn’t worried. That’s not what this was at all.

Not until they knocked down the door, anyway.

The apartment was still full of plastic furniture. It was also completely empty except one very tiny kid, maybe two years old, sitting on a plastic chair. He was dressed in a white button up, black slacks, and a tiny bulletproof vest. 

He looked like . . . he looked . . .

“Leo?”

The kid waved cheerfully. 

Delahoy wished that Monica was still talking to him, because if hallucinating your partner as a toddler was yet another symptom of his brain tumor, well, he’d like to know about it. 

But then one of the cops behind him said, “I didn’t know Banks had a kid.”

“He doesn’t,” Delahoy said without turning around. Apparently, the kid in front of him was actually there. He wasn’t hallucinating again. That should have been a relief.

It really, really wasn’t.

*

“So, you found a black kid at Banks’s apartment and automatically assumed he was a de-aged Banks?” Casey switched her phone to her other hand as she hastily searched through Christine Kim’s desk. “I can’t decide if that’s racist or just crazy.”

“Possibly both,” Delahoy said tightly. “But you haven’t seen this kid, okay? The resemblance is uncanny, except he’s, you know . . . “

“Sucking his thumb?”

“ _Shorter_. Besides, where the hell do you get a toddler sized bulletproof vest, anyway? Which, by the way, he won’t let anyone touch. Who does that sound like to you, huh?”

Casey frowned. “If Banks turned into a two-year-old overnight, wouldn’t he still be wearing his adult-sized clothes?”

“My partner turns into a toddler, and your concern is that his clothes didn’t magically transform too? Why are you even bothering me? Aren’t you supposed to be reciting love poetry to Walsh or something?”

Casey snorted. “I’m searching Kim’s office for anything to go on, and hopefully, I find something soon, because I don’t know how many more quick trips to the bathroom I can fake before Kim or her terrible dream assistant gets suspicious. What’s Mini-Banks doing now?”

“Now? Now, he’s back with me at the precinct, mashing his graham crackers together into a big mess instead of eating them. Kids. Give them food, and they destroy it. Ask them questions, and they ignore you. This, this right here? This is why I’m glad I’ll never have kids.”

“I think you still have some time for that.”

Delahoy paused. “Right,” he said. “Look -- ”

Casey’s phone beeped, and she glanced at it. “Oh, that’s Davis. I have to take this. Try to be nice to the kid, okay?”

“I’m _always_ ni -- ” 

Casey hung up on him. “Hey, Davis. Listen, I might not be able to make dinner tonight. There’s a lot going on right now -- one of the cops I work with is apparently having psychic visions through his mustache, and another one has gone missing, unless he’s actually been magically de-aged into a two-year-old version of himself. Oh, and I might have to marry Walsh. How about Saturday?”

“. . . you’re going to marry Walsh?”

“Really?” Casey asked. “That’s the part you stuck on?” She closed the desk drawer in frustration and turned around in the office. Casey liked Beaumont, and she trusted her instincts, but there was nothing here to link Kim to these crimes. And except for being hopelessly, disgustingly cheerful, Kim had seemed pretty normal to her.

Of course, normal was relative when you were snooping through desk drawers in a Cinderella costume.

“Well,” Davis said. “Considering the other things you mentioned aren’t actually possible, yes, the idea of you marrying Walsh is the part I’m stuck on.” He sighed tragically. “It’s the diner, isn’t it? I know how you love greasy little spoons.”

“It’s not -- “

“You want a man who can make you pancakes, don’t you? You should know, I can _order_ pancakes really well.”

Casey laughed. “Trust me,” she said. “Walsh has a diner, and he _still_ can’t make pancakes. Or anything. Do you know he tried to make me an omelet the other day? It had _gummi bears_ in it. Sour ones.”

“Casey, please focus. Why are you planning on marrying Walsh?”

“His milk-drinking trophy. It’s so sexy. I just can’t control myself when I think of it.”

“Casey.”

“Oh, relax, we’re undercover. But it’s not going well. At this rate, we’ll actually _have_ to get married and wait to see who shows up to rob our fake apartment. Hey, you wanna be in the wedding? Fair warning: it has a very specific theme, so you might have to dress up as pumpkin, or a mouse.”

Dead silence. 

“Davis. You’re not really upset about this, are you? You know it’s all fake.”

“Casey, _we_ started out as fake.”

“That’s true. I can definitely see how this might develop into a pattern.” She heard footsteps outside the office. “Oh, crap. Hold on a second.”

Quickly, Casey stuffed herself and her 8,000 pounds of blue fabric under the desk. The door opened, and a few moments later, it shut. She waited until the footsteps retreated before putting the phone back to her ear. “Davis?”

Davis sighed. “If you can’t make it tonight,” he said, “we can get dinner on Saturday. But if so, we’re going somewhere upscale. Somewhere with ludicrously expensive bottles of wine and four different types of forks. I may even hire someone to sing to us.”

“No singing,” Casey said immediately.

“Okay,” Davis said, and she could hear the smile in his voice.

She wriggled out from under the desk and glanced at the clock. “I better go,” Casey said apologetically. “I’ve been gone too long, and -- God, I think we have to go over the wedding vows next.”

Davis laughed. “And how _are_ you liking being a bride?”

“I really miss being a hooker.”

*

Cole gave the child -- who was clearly not Leo Banks, even if he did bear a striking resemblance to the older man-- a small cup of apple juice, and sat with him as he drank it. Cole didn’t try to question him. Allison and Sergeant Brown had already tried, and Delahoy too, with infinitely less patience. But the boy clearly wasn’t speaking yet, possibly developmentally disabled in some way, or possibly just a late bloomer. Cole, himself, apparently hadn’t said his first word until he was 2 ½. His momma had told him he’d just been waiting until he’d had something important to say.

Cole’s first word had been “taco.” He supposed he’d been particularly hungry that day.

“Here,” Cole said, offering his badge to the boy. “Do you want to play with this?”

Tentatively, the boy took it. After turning it over multiple times, he started waving it in the air and grinning. 

Cole smiled. “Look at you. You’ll be a cop before you know it.”

He hoped Banks was okay. There hadn’t been any signs of foul play in his apartment, no blood or turned-over furniture, nothing to suggest violence or even a break-in. None of his neighbors had seen or heard anything suspicious, at least none that they could get ahold of. (A fair number of people were still unaccounted for.) And yet Leo was gone, without his wallet, weapon, or phone, and a small child in near-identical clothing was left in his place. With Alvarez’s dire prediction hanging over their heads, things seemed . . . ominous.

And what could he make of Detective Alvarez’s newfound ability for knowing the unknowable? Cole’s instinct was to deny it -- only the Lord could see what might happen tomorrow -- but Alvarez wouldn’t make up something like this. He suffered from pride, perhaps, but he wouldn’t lie with malicious intent, Cole was certain. It could have been a delusional belief, brought upon by the concussion he had suffered -- but Alvarez had already successfully predicted unexpected snow, a six-car pileup, and a drunk mime making trouble at a hotdog stand. Officers who had laughed at Eddie this morning were now asking him who was going to win the Superbowl, if their wives were cheating on them, how they were going to die.

Delahoy, Cole noted, stayed well clear of Alvarez. Cole’s own eyes drifted towards Allison, at her desk across the precinct. She still moved stiffly sometimes, one arm wrapped around her stomach.

It might be for the best, Cole decided, if he stayed clear of Alvarez himself.

Alvarez passed Jason’s desk, then stopped and looked around, as if he’d heard something. He touched the desk, then his mustache, and said, “Detective Walsh is going to blow his cover.”

There was a long pause in the precinct. Then everyone ran to Allison to quickly change their bets.

*

Okay. He’d put up with the outfit, the white gloves and red pants and stupid tassels. He’d been assaulted with various colognes. He’d even gamely attempted to learn how to waltz, and honestly, it wasn’t like he’d _meant_ to step on Casey’s feet -- not that you’d know that from the vicious, retaliatory punch she delivered to his shoulder when no one else was looking. His arm ached now. His toes, too, because dress shoes were dumb.

But he’d put up with all that because this was the job, and sometimes the job sucked. But this . . .

“Yeah,” Walsh said. “I’m not really a heartfelt speech kind of guy.”

“No worries!” Kim said brightly. Walsh was beginning to think that she did everything brightly. He bet she sprang out of bed in the morning singing. Birds probably helped her dress and braid her hair. “Trust me, it’s completely normal. Many people have a hard time bringing the song of their heart into actual words.”

Oh, he was gonna vomit.

“Marisela? Marisela!”

Kim’s assistant jogged over to them. She was a pretty Latina girl, maybe 25, 27, and seemed nice enough, if obviously stressed out. She was also either very new at the job or not particularly good at it because she didn’t seem to know half of what she was doing. He felt a little sorry for her. Not as sorry as he felt for himself, though.

Freaking tassels . . .

“Do you have the dream cards, Marisela?” Kim asked, and for the first time, Walsh actually heard something _other_ than perkiness in her voice. Namely, impatience.

“Oh,” Marisela said, fumbling through her bag. “Oh, yes. Yes, uh . . . just one moment!” She frantically scurried away.

Kim sighed audibly and immediately caught herself at it. She turned to Casey with a big smile. “The dream cards,” she explained, “are for people who need a helping hand with their vows, or for anybody who suffers from stage fright. They can be a remarkably helpful tool. But you don’t strike me as the shy type, Casey. What do you say? Would you like to give it a go without the cards?”

Casey looked like she’d rather go to an opera with Alvarez. “Uh,” she said. “Sure.” She turned to Walsh and squared her shoulders. “Well. Jason -- ”

“Oh, hold hands!” Kim said. “Trust me, it’ll help!” She grabbed their hands and forced them together.

“Right.” Casey looked up at Jason. “Well. Uh. I remember when we met. I . . . wasn’t who I appeared to be -- ”

Yeah, Walsh remembered the hooker heels.

“-- and we both kept secrets from each other at first, but then . . . then you trusted me with your past, and you, you accepted mine without blinking. That meant a lot.” For the first time that day, Casey’s strained smile seemed genuine. “We’ve been through a lot together. That time you gave up your dumb trophy, and I stole it back for you, or when we helped your friend not get fired, and you know, avoid a homicide charge.” She suddenly turned to Kim. “That didn’t really happen. That was a joke.”

Walsh tried not to roll his eyes as he squeezed her hands. She looked back at him.

“Anyway, I’m just saying . . . you’ve always been there for me. You’ve been a great partner --uh, boyfriend. Definitely boyfriend. And I just want to say that I’ll always be there for you, whenever you need me. I’m there to back you up.” She smiled at him, and then blinked. “Oh, because I love you. Right. Wouldn’t want to forget that part.” Casey’s laughter was a little painful to listen to. She turned to Kim. “Well?”

“Oh, wonderful!” Kim said, wiping a tear away. As far as Walsh could tell, there wasn’t even a trace of irony in her voice. “A few rough spots in the middle, which we’ll even out with practice, but I could tell you were speaking from the heart. Brava! Beautifully done.” She turned around. “Now, if we just had -- ”

“I’ve got them!” Marisela ran around the corner, clutching a handful of mildly crumpled cards in her hand. Kim, unable to hide her exasperation any longer, grabbed them from her.

“Here, Jason, why don’t you try this one?”

Walsh took the blue index card. “My . . . beloved.” 

_Jesus Christ_.

“I knew from the first moment I saw you that my life would never again be the same,” Walsh said. If he said it without enthusiasm, like he was reading map directions, well, what of it? “You’ve made me a better person, and I cannot fathom my life without you. When I look at the shining stars in the sky -- okay, who wrote this shi -- ”

“Jason,” Casey said.

Walsh sighed. “When I look at the shining stars in the sky, all I can think of is your face, and the light that you have given my life. You have given me more than love, name of brid -- Casey. You have given me hope. In my darkest times, you were my guide, and I have followed you everywhere. I have longed for you. I have . . . yearned, wow . . . I have yearned for your . . . for your . . . okay, that’s it. I’m done, I’m out.”

“He’s kidding,” Casey said quickly, and then whispered under her breath, “ _Walsh_.”

Walsh turned to Kim. “Ma’am, I’m not here to get married; I’m here to root out a thief, and one of my co-workers is pretty sure you’re the one I should be arresting. Personally, I have a hard time believing that, since you actually seem to buy all this crap you’re selling, but my co-worker is an excellent cop, and at this point, I’m prepared to arrest everyone in here just for being obnoxiously cheerful. So, let’s cut to the chase: have you been stealing shit or not?”

Kim stared at him for a minute and then abruptly burst into tears.

Casey flopped down on the couch in disgust. “Is there dream booze around here?”

*

The station had erupted into cheers and laughter, which was slightly inappropriate, considering a fellow officer of the law was missing. But Eddie’s mustache twitched, and as he stroked it, he knew that everybody in the precinct was anxious about Banks’s disappearance, that they were now using their bet on the Dreams robbery case to relieve tension as they worked diligently to uncover what had happened to their missing coworker.

And Eddie Alvarez could admit to himself that he, too, felt a small sense of satisfaction as his friend Jason cracked and broke his cover. People had never taken Alvarez seriously before; all his life, as a matter of fact, people had belittled his manner of speech, his dedication to the rules, even his masculine and well-groomed mustache. But today that was changing. Today people not only respected Alvarez’s mustache; they wished they were lucky enough to have one of their own. Even Sergeant Brown looked at him differently today.

Alvarez had been waiting a long time to advance in the field, to leave the detective’s badge behind and step into a respected, authoritative position, a job with better hours and a better salary, a career that would make Nicole proud. Maybe his newfound abilities were the key to unlocking this dream. Maybe, after years of mockery and derision, it would be his mustache that would take him to the top.

“It’s great and everything,” Delahoy said, “that you’re this psychic wonder now, but maybe you could use your telepathic mojo to help me find my partner now, yeah?”

Alvarez looked at him. “Of course, Eric,” he said. “I . . . “ He trailed off, distracted by the sight of Beaumont across the station. She was sitting at her desk, shaking her head. Her smile didn’t look like a smile at all; it looked weary, defeated, a woman laughing at herself for not having known better. He didn’t understand it; she should have been celebrating, too. After all, she had picked that Jason would break cover before anyone. And she couldn’t have been jealous -- if this day had proved anything, it was that he and Shraeger had absolutely _no_ romantic feelings toward one another.

He cleared his throat and turned to Detective Cole, who was sitting beside the small boy they had found in Banks’s apartment. “Do you know what’s upsetting your partner?”

Cole glanced up and frowned. “I might,” he said, “but it wouldn’t be right for me to say.”

“She’s confided in you,” Alvarez said. “And you won’t break that confidence. Eddie Alvarez respects that.”

“No,” Cole said. “She doesn’t know I know. She wouldn’t want me to. So, I’ve never said.” He smiled as he looked at her, only his smile was small and full of regret. “It’s funny, the secrets we keep for one another.”

Alvarez looked back at Beaumont. She was counting out money now, distributing the cash to the winners, which was virtually everybody. In a way, nobody won anything because they had all picked the right bet. The bet Alvarez had told them to choose.

A lot of money had been in that pot. Most of it would be Beaumont’s now, if Alvarez had kept his mouth shut.

“It’s not your fault,” Cole said, even though Alvarez hadn’t said anything. “You couldn’t have known.”

But he could have. He should have known. “Will it . . . how bad is it?”

Cole studied him for a minute. “I think the money could’ve helped,” he said finally. “But this won’t ruin her. She’s one of the strongest people I’ve had the privilege to know.” 

The little boy tugged on Cole’s arm. Cole turned to him. “More juice? All right, then.” He glanced back at Alvarez. “Please don’t tell,” he said quietly, and then he and the boy were crossing the precinct.

Alvarez’s mustache itched. He ignored it because he was not worthy to touch it. He had used its precognitive powers without considering the consequences, and by doing so, he had hurt one of his fellow coworkers. He had been more concerned with his own future than the lives of anyone else around him.

“Hey, Alvarez.” Delahoy came up to him, snapped his fingers twice. “Are you gonna help me find Leo or not?”

Alvarez looked at him. “I don’t deserve this gift,” he said.

“Okay,” Delahoy said. “Sure. Why don’t you turn your back on it _after_ we find my partner, all right?”

But Alvarez was already leaving the room.

*

As Cole poured another glass of juice, he noticed something purple sticking out of the boy’s pocket. He frowned and knelt down. “Hey,” he said. “Can I see what that is?”

The boy just stared at him.

“Okay,” Cole said. “Here.” He pulled his wallet out of his own pocket, and then pointed at the purple thing. “We’ll trade, see?” He handed the boy his wallet, who took it happily and immediately upended it. Change went everywhere. The boy laughed, clearly delighted, and took the object out of his pocket and threw it on the ground too. It was a toy, an octopus. Cole stared at it.

“We should always clean up our messes,” he said finally, gesturing towards the still-spinning coins. “But first, I think we should show your toy to my partner, okay?” 

*

“It’s true,” Kim said, still crying on the couch. She’d been sobbing for about ten minutes straight -- Casey was a little worried she was gonna melt. “It’s all true. I know it was wrong, but I needed the money.”

“Yeah?” Casey asked. “What’s the street value on plush octopuses these days?”

“The . . . what?”

“The octopuses. Octopi? Meh. The toys you stole from Julia and Esteban Rodriguez, along with their television and two 14 karat diamond necklaces.”

Kim pulled back. “The -- of course not! I would never steal from our clients! Julia, she was such a lovely bride. We did a Winter Wonderland theme for her wedding, something she’s always wanted, ever since she was a little girl. I would never take away from that. We’re in the business of making dreams come true!”

“Yeah,” Walsh said. “The company’s called Dreams. We really get it.”

Casey glared at him. “Shut up, Walsh. I can’t believe you blew our cover just because you couldn’t read five sentences on an index card.” She turned back to Kim. “If you aren’t stealing from the clients, who _are_ you stealing from?”

Kim put her face in her hands and said something.

“Christine? You’re really going to have to try that again.”

Kim looked up at her. “Dreams,” she said. “I stole from the company. Ten months ago, my dog, Mr. Fuzzy Paws -- ”

Walsh mouthed “Mr. Fuzzy Paws” in disbelief. Casey pointed at him, and he shut up.

“ -- he needed emergency surgery. I didn’t have the money on hand, so I . . . I misappropriated seven thousand dollars. Mr. Fuzzy Paws is all right now, and I’ve been paying the company back, of course, but I . . . I’m still about nine hundred short, and when the cops came earlier, talking about stealing, I was so sure they’d find out what I’d done, and they’d -- they’d put me in jail and take Mr. Fuzzy Paws away.” 

Kim dissolved into tears again. Casey hesitantly patted her twice on the back, and suddenly Kim was clinging to her, burying her head in Casey’s shoulder. “Oh. Uh . . . okay, it’s okay.” She looked around. “Where is the Kleenex? This is a wedding store. Shouldn’t there be boxes of it everywhere?”

Kim lifted her head. “There are boxes of it everywh -- Marisela!”

“I . . . forgot?”

“How could you -- ”

“Okay,” Marisela said. “You don’t get to yell at me for being a bad employee anymore. I mean, I’m glad you saved your dog and all, but one of us forgot to place strategic Kleenex boxes and one of us stole _seven thousand dollars_ , okay? And considering I’m standing in for that total loser, think I’m doing a damn good job. You know what I’m supposed to be doing right now? Arranging flowers. I am _excellent_ at arranging flowers, when I don’t have to keep rushing around taking notes for you or finding thing in your completely ridiculous office -- “

“It’s not ridiculous! Everything is properly indexed by type of _dream_ \-- “

“Hey!” Casey snapped her fingers. “Who is this total loser?”

“Peter McIntyre,” Kim said, sniffling. “My personal assistant. He’s completely invaluable to me, but he never showed up this morning, and he hasn’t been answering his phone. Last minute weddings are always difficult to properly plan and I knew I’d need help, so I asked Marisela to be my assistant for the day.”

“So this McIntyre, he has access to all the same information you do?” Walsh asked. “Clients' addresses and such?”

“Yes, but . . . oh, no, you don’t think -- ”

“Not necessarily,” Casey said. “But it won’t hurt to check. Why don’t you give us his contact information?”

Kim nodded and left, wiping her eyes hastily. She came back a few minutes later with a post-it in her hand. “This is his temporary phone number and address,” she said. “His old apartment burned down, some kind of accident with the wiring. He’s been staying with some friend of his for the past few weeks.”

Casey looked at the post-it and frowned. “Isn’t that Banks’s apartment?”

“No,” Walsh said. “It’s the one right next door.”

*

It was going to happen. Banks was going to die.

No one had believed him, not even Eric. They had all laughed at his safety precautions: the vest, the sanitizer, the furniture you couldn’t accidentally crack your skull on. They’d all thought it was funny when the coroner’s office had him declared legally dead. They took it for granted that he’d still be here this time next year.

But he wouldn’t be. Two weeks from turning 43, Banks knew he was going to die, tied up and gagged in his neighbor’s coat closet.

The fact that he wasn’t going to die alone wasn’t any consolation at all because his neighbor, tied up next to him, was a nice guy who didn’t deserve any of this, even if he did have spectacularly awful friends. Banks still wasn’t clear on all the details; nobody gave him the full rundown before knocking him over the head and tossing his ass into a closet. All he knew was, he’d been making himself a nice breakfast before going to work -- something light, healthy, nothing that could upset either his digestion or blood pressure -- when he heard something lightly hitting his door.

It took him about two minutes to unlock and open the door. When he did, he found little Parker sitting outside. Banks squatted down beside him. “Hey, buddy,” he said. “Where’s your dad?”

But the answer to that question was obvious, as Banks heard faint yelling coming from the next apartment. Two voices, both men. Greg and someone else -- Peter, probably. Banks had only met him in passing once or twice. Tall guy, white, skinny, brown hair. Worked as a wedding planner, or something like that. They could have been arguing over anything -- breakfast, fantasy football, picking up dirty laundry in the bathroom -- but it sounded heated, and Banks wasn’t in the mood to take any chances.

“Okay, squirt,” he said, picking up Parker and bringing him back inside his apartment. “You are going to wait right here until I see what’s going on with your dad. Don’t open the door for anyone, okay?”

Parker nodded, and Banks locked him inside. He had a soft spot for the kid, who had taken to following him around the last few months. “You look just like your dad,” people said to them all the time, amusing the hell out of Parker’s actual dad, Greg, who had promptly decided that Parker should dress up as Banks for Halloween. He hadn’t expected Banks to find anyone who could actually make a child-sized bulletproof vest, though, or for Parker to love the costume so much that he’d refuse to take it off. He wore it everywhere, pretending to capture invisible bad guys. His second birthday was a day after Banks’s 43rd. Banks had started to believe maybe he’d be there to see it, if he could just stay safe for a couple more weeks.

Instead, he walked into Greg’s apartment and overheard just enough to realize that Greg wasn’t real happy with his buddy for stealing while living under his roof. Then Banks took what might have been a frying pan to the head. He wasn’t sure. It happened pretty fast.

He’d awoken in the closet, tied up and gagged. Greg, similarly restrained, had been in and out of consciousness for the past few hours. He was breathing okay, at least for now, but Banks wasn’t sure if the air coming from beneath the crack under the door was enough to keep them from suffocating eventually. And even if it was, they’d probably just dehydrate before anyone found him. 

Dehydration. Banks had considered the possibility of being shot, stabbed, strangled, poisoned. He’d considered the likelihood of dying in a traffic accident, in an airplane, in a subway, stairwell, swimming pool, elevator. He’d done everything he could to avoid influenza, pneumonia, bird flu, anthrax, smallpox, chickenpox, plague, and gingivitis. And now he was going to die of dehydration next to a single father and his dirty work boots.

Somewhere outside, there was a loud crashing -- the unmistakable sound of police knocking down a door with a battering ram. Banks had heard it earlier, thought he was saved . . . but nobody came. Maybe it had been Delahoy, knocking down the door to Banks’s apartment, or maybe it hadn’t had anything to do with him at all. Maybe it had been a raid three doors down -- the guy who lived there wore plaid shirts with polka dot ties and constantly ate Tic Tacs and was otherwise just shifty as all hell. It didn’t matter. Delahoy hadn’t found him then, and he wouldn’t find him now --

“Leo? Leo!”

Holy shit.

“Eric!” Banks yelled, or tried, anyway. Through the duct tape, it sounded mostly like, “Mmmph!” Banks rolled around as best he could and kicked at the door.

And just like that, the door opened, and Banks blinked, squinting at the sudden light. Through the glare, he could just make out his partner. “Jesus, Leo,” Eric said, and Banks could hear the naked relief in his voice, emotion they would obviously pretend never happened.

“Mmmph.”

Delahoy knelt down and took Greg’s pulse. He nodded to himself and then -- with the complete lack of sensitivity Banks had come to expect from his partner -- ripped the tape off Banks’s mouth with no warning at all.

“ _Ow_!”

Delahoy shook his head. “Leo,” he said. “I really think you need to move.”

*

It took a few hours for Leo to give his statements and get cleared by the medics. While he waited, Delahoy popped a few aspirin for his headache and talked to Casey on the phone, who continued to give him shit for thinking the kid could’ve been Leo in the first place. Which was crap. Even _Leo_ had mentioned the kid looked like him. What was he supposed to think?

“I don’t know. How about anything else?”

“I don’t know why I talk to you,” Delahoy said. “Are you still at that wedding place? Are you arresting that nice woman for saving her dog?”

“No,” Casey sighed. “Couldn’t do it. It was just too mean. Anyway, we checked, and she was telling the truth: she’s been paying the company back ever since Mr. Fuzzy Paws came through surgery. Most people wouldn’t even have done that. “

That was probably true. Also true: what the hell kind of name was Mr. Fuzzy Paws?

“Oh, hey,” Casey said. “You heard, right? About Alvarez?”

He had.

“Are you coming tonight?”

“Yeah,” Delahoy said. “We’re heading over as soon as Leo’s done here.”

Forty minutes later, they were on their way back to the precinct. “You know,” Delahoy said as he drove. “I’m glad you’re not dead. Or a two-year-old.”

“Yeah, I -- wait, _what_?”

“Weird day, man. Although, hey, I wasn’t getting life lessons from my eternally young high school girlfriend, and I didn’t push any zombies on swings, so, all in all, I guess it wasn’t that weird.”

“You know I never understand anything you say, right?”

Delahoy smiled. “Yeah,” he said. “I know. Hey, how’s your friend?”

“Staying the night for observation, but they think he’s going to be okay. And Sergeant Brown said we could put Greg and Parker up in a hotel until we can get their door fixed. Speaking of. While we’re waiting for _my_ door to -- ”

“Leo, you can stay on my couch as long as you want and eat your disgustingly healthy foods and bathe in antiseptics for all I care, but I’m not replacing any of my furniture with inflatable toys. Oh, anyone tell you we caught the guy?”

Leo turned. “McIntyre? You’re kidding. How?”

“Well, a little birdie tipped us towards Grand Central -- ”

“You got him boarding a train?”

“Actually,” Delahoy said. “He never made it that far. We found him a few blocks away, knocked out cold. Looks like someone threw a can of salsa at his head.”

“ _What_?”

“Told you, man. Weird day.”

“Huh,” Leo said. “What else did I miss?”

“Well, Shraeger and Walsh were going to get married for a while there. It was creepy and all kinds of painful. And Alvarez took a can of salsa to the head, too.”

Leo laughed, but quickly stopped, studying Delahoy. “Wait, he’s okay, right?”

Delahoy didn’t answer.

*

_Attention Second Squad: all available officers are invited to attend a memorial service on the rooftop for one of our own. All guests are encouraged to speak about the deceased, and also to bring marshmallows_.

*

“Thank you, everyone, for coming. Today is a day of mourning, not just for Eddie Alvarez, but for the whole department. I know you must all be nearly as saddened by this loss as I am.”

“Oh my God,” Casey muttered. Walsh elbowed her in the side, and she glared at him. “Are you kidding me?”

He grinned at her and then immediately pulled a stoic face, nodding solemnly along to the eulogy. Beaumont, at his side, had a hand over her mouth, and was doing an exceptionally bad job at pretending her escaped giggles were escaped sobs. Walsh was holding her other hand and carefully not looking at her, presumably to keep from cracking up.

Cole shook his head. “This ceremony, it’s a mockery of God, and of the human soul, and -- ”

Beaumont laughed again and wiped at her eyes. “Lighten up, Cole.”

“We come here today to mourn the passing of this . . . this beautiful presence in all of our lives. Once regarded as a mere fashion icon, a signature of stylish and alluring masculinity -- ”

Walsh lost it. He and Beaumont both covered their faces entirely, shaking with laughter. Casey patted Walsh on the back. 

“He’s very distraught,” she said flatly to anyone who looked his way.

“It has done so much more than bring me great personal joy. Today alone, it helped alert us that Detective Banks was in danger, and in its one last, great act, helped us apprehend his heinous attacker.”

“I can’t believe you let me think something actually happened to Alvarez,” Banks whispered somewhere behind Casey.

“Something _did_ happen,” Delahoy said, clearly not repentant at all. “Look at him. His face is all . . . weird now. I can see his upper lip.”

“It’s like looking at a naked molerat,” Casey said.

Delahoy snapped his fingers. “ _Exactly_!”

“I did not want to give up this brave mustache,” Alvarez said, “but today taught Eddie Alvarez a lesson in humility. It taught me that I was not yet worthy of its awesome psychic powers, and until I was, I could not wield them, or wear the ‘stache, for my own personal gain. And so I took a razor and . . . and separated my best friend from my face.”

To her left, Davis murmured, “You owe me _so_ many more expensive dinners for this.”

“Die Hard marathon and sex tonight?” Casey countered.

“ . . . deal.”

Alvarez got his emotions under control. “You may step closer and view the deceased now.”

Everyone looked at each other and then reluctantly shuffled forward. Lying in a ripped open animal cracker box (poorly colored with a black Sharpie) was Alvarez’s detached mustache. It was probably the creepiest thing Casey had ever seen.

“And now, Sergeant Brown, if you’ll do the honors.”

Sergeant Brown, wearing the kind of exasperated expression you might expect from someone at a mustache funeral, set the box down in the fire pit and lit it up. Alvarez stared down at the animal box coffin mournfully. Walsh struggled to regain control of his laughter and, solemnly as he could, detached from Beaumont and stood beside Alvarez.

“There there,” he said.

Alvarez immediately hugged him.

Walsh sighed loud enough that Casey could hear him, but hugged Alvarez back. Then he stepped forwards. “Eddie’s right,” he said. “Today is a day of mourning. But I’m sure the . . . mustache wouldn’t want us to grieve. It would want us to . . . to think of the good times.”

Behind him, Alvarez nodded. 

“So, let’s make a toast, okay?” Walsh raised his glass. “To Eddie Alvarez’s mustache.”

“It will certainly not be forgotten,” Casey said, meeting Walsh’s eye. 

They drank. 

And then they drank some more because it _had_ been a long day, but also because it had been a good day, because they were all still here and the badge hadn’t killed anyone yet.

(And, also, because dream champagne was _really_ good.) 

\- END


End file.
